APPENDIX 
i 35 
TWELFTH NIGHT. 
O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound, 
That breathes upon a bank of violets. 
I. i. 5. 
Sir To. Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff. 
I. iii. 108. 
Mai. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for 
a boy ; as a squash is before ’tis a peascod, or a codling when 
’tis almost an apple: ’tis with him in standing water, between 
boy and man. 
I. v. 165. 
I hold the olive in my hand ; my words are as full of peace 
as matter. 
I. v. 225. 
Vio. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, 
And call upon my soul within the house. 
I. v. 287. 
Clo. Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i’ the 
mouth, too. 
II. iii. 126. 
For women are as roses, whose fair flower 
Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour. 
II. iv. 39. 
Clo. Come away, come away, death, 
And in sad cypress let me be laid ; 
Fly away, fly away, breath ; 
I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 
O, prepare it! 
My part of death, no one so true 
Did share it. 
Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 
On my black coffin let there be strown; 
Not a friend, not a friend greet 
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : 
A thousand thousand sighs to save, 
Lay me, O, where 
Sad true lover never find my grave, 
To weep there ! 
II. iv. 52, 
